


In the Basement of Heaven

by theoneandonlyzoom



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Drugs, Gen, Kidnapping, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Murderer on the loose again, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Relationships, written post- fear response
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-12-14 17:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21019547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneandonlyzoom/pseuds/theoneandonlyzoom
Summary: Unbeknownst to the NYPD, Martin finally finds his way to freedom.And he’s come to collect his children.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I absolutely adore this show. I don't know how the rest of season one is going to play out, but I bet Martin, at some point, is going to find his way to freedom. Michael Raymond-James has already been cast as Martin's old friend/possible accomplice, so I imagine Martin developed at least something of a back-up plan with someone before he was caught by the police.
> 
> Side-note: I've been slowly editing out stupid mistakes. If you notice any glaring errors, don't hesitate to let me know.
> 
> EDIT: I had to make some very minor changes, because I somehow completely missed the fact that the entrance to Malcolm's apartment is beside the stairs in his kitchen, not under them. Can't have someone ascending through the floorboards like a dark spectre from the great beyond, now can we?

~***~

_“If there was a race, a race for your heart, it started before you were born_

_above the chloroform sky, clouds made of Ambien, sitting on carpets in the basement of heaven”_

— Arcade Fire (Put Your Money on Me)

~***~

Of the four main conceptual forms of love in ancient Greek philosophy, _storge_ is known as the instinctual affection of one’s kin. It can extend to friends that become family, but _philia_ is a better label for the dispassionate sentiment shared between companions outside one’s bloodline. _Storge_, he thinks, should be reserved for true familial ties, because while friendship requires equality, which can be hard to earn and even harder to keep, _storge_ requires nothing more than the miracle of birth.

The concept of love has been weighing on his mind quite a bit lately because he’s been dwelling on his diagnosis in his spare time, the one that’s been hanging over his head for the last twenty years: a sociopathic predator, made a monster by means yet unknown to his therapist. It’s considered common knowledge that sociopaths are incapable of genuine feelings, though proto-emotions, like frustration and rage, the most primitive of our emotional reflexes, are still accessible to him. That means love is apparently off the table so far as he’s concerned.

He would almost agree, if not for _storge_, even if he’s never truly experienced all the other facets of love. He doesn’t ‘love’ his friends or even particularly like them all that much, so _philia_ is a mystery to him. _Agape_, perhaps, could be within his purview, because what he feels for his children certainly transcends all other earthly emotions, although he’s lacking the distinct connection to ‘God’ that Christians seem to think is a requirement for this particular affection. If there really is a God in heaven, he’s the prime example of an ‘absentee father’ and about as deserving of humanity’s praise and adoration as one. But, no—‘love’ is still accessible to him, at least since the day he decided to bring his children into the world.

In fact, he _adores_ the concept of _storge_ because it focuses on a predetermined sense of duty, an obedient and reverential bond between father and child. He made them, and, in making them, he vowed to guide them and protect them, at least so far as he is capable. There isn’t a cell in their bodies that would exist today without him. They are his—they are _him_, and they are beholden to his whims. Malcolm, at the very least, must realize this. Martin’s told him enough times already that they are one in the same, and the responding silence, the paralyzing gleam of fear in Malcolm’s eyes only goes to show that his boy knows this to be true.

Oh, _Malcolm_…How is a man supposed to deal with a boy like Malcolm, docile one day and defiant the next? Truly, Martin doesn’t know where he went wrong with his son. It was as if a switch had been flipped inside his brain one gloomy Friday afternoon, the last they spent together before he fled to Quantico. Martin supposes he has Det. Gil Arroyo to thank for that. To all outside appearances, Malcolm was comfortable in his father’s company until someone gave him the brilliant idea to join the FBI. If Arroyo didn’t instigate this rift between them, Martin doesn’t know who did.

But enough about Arroyo—Martin’s hatred for the man has been simmering on the backburner of his mind for the last two decades. Ignoring it for another day won’t dull the proverbial blade. Tonight—_tonight_ is all about Malcolm and Ainsley, his beautiful children, who are nearer to him now than they would rightly feel comfortable knowing.

The truck pulls up across the street from Malcolm’s apartment building, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Martin has the passenger window rolled down a crack, enough to give him a breath of fresh air while still concealing him behind the tinted glass. His accomplice has thought of everything, of course, the hidden cameras, the transportation, the drugs, the bindings—all the trappings of a gentle abduction, as well as the cooling corpse in his bed back at the asylum, bundled up under the covers, not set to be discovered until the 5am shift rotation. That gives them almost six hours to pack everyone up and leave the city.

Ainsley is already at home, having climbed into bed around 10:30pm after a lengthy phone-call with her mother. His associate will deal with her once Martin is all set to handle Malcolm, who’s spent an ungodly amount of time dawdling at the precinct with his dysfunctional support group. Martin would’ve gone to collect Ainsley himself except she isn’t medicated and therefore has no pills that can be readily replaced with a sedative, necessitating a more hands-on approach to subduing her. Even if he could overpower her without much trouble, he doesn’t want her first unchained encounter with him to be a painful one, at least physically. He wants her to look upon him when she wakes and hear his soft voice, to see the rare bird that is his tenderness and mercy before coming to the unspoken realization that he couldn’t ever possibly mean her harm.

There’s the crinkle of plastic as his accomplice twists open the cap of his disposable water bottle and takes a drink. The sound eats up the silence in a way that is not entirely unwelcome, distracting Martin from the live-feed on the cell phone in his hand, the one coming from the camera tucked away in Arroyo’s office. Presently, the man is standing beside his desk, struggling to get his left arm into his coat sleeve, dog-tired and ready for home. Twenty minutes ago, Malcolm had been with him, sitting on the couch by the door, sucking on a piece of candy with a marvelous kind of childlike delight. They hadn’t been discussing work; they chatted about art and a new exhibit that was going to open in a few days, something about mental diseases on canvas. It almost sounded as though they were making plans for their whole team to go, as if the relationship Malcolm had with these people—with _Arroyo_—wasn’t strictly professional. 

Once again, Martin has to remind himself that there will be a time and place to deal with _that_ problem later. Arroyo’s race is run; the man just doesn’t know it yet.

“There,” his companion grunts, drawing Martin’s attention to the lone figure strolling down the sidewalk across the street. Whippet-thin and wrapped up in his dark grey coat, gait brisk but smooth, Malcolm moves almost wraithlike to his destination. He could do with a little more meat on his bones, because he doesn’t look intimidating in the slightest, but the fluidity of his form is admirable. He gets it from his father, of course, and that makes all the difference in the world in their respective lines of work.

Martin can feel the excitement bubbling up inside him. Ten years—ten _miserable_ years of waiting for the opportune moment, for Malcolm to settle down more permanently in New York so that they could collect their intel and plan this so-called heist. Seeing snippets of the boy at the asylum hasn’t been enough in the meantime. Even before Malcolm went rogue on him, it hadn’t been enough. Martin was supposed to be with his children through every step of their lives. Too much has happened to them in his absence, modelling them outside his sphere of control.

“This shouldn’t take long,” his accomplice says, voice muffled by his mask. How he can stand to be bundled up like that in this hot weather is beyond Martin’s understanding, but if the other man is at all uncomfortable, he’s good at hiding it. “He has a pretty tight routine once he gets home in the evening.”

“How long before he takes his pills?” Martin asks. His accomplice had already slipped into Malcolm’s apartment and swapped his medication for a sedative earlier in the day.

“Fifteen to twenty minutes.” His accomplice reaches over for the phone, swiping the screen to another camera feed, this one of Malcolm’s kitchen, angled to face the stairwell and part of the bedroom. In about 3 seconds, Malcolm appears, slipping his jacket off and hanging it on a rack in the corner. “He’ll shower first, then eat something quick. Then he usually takes his pills and sits down to read or work.”

“Does he have an alarm system?”

“No.”

That surprises him. Malcolm scares easily. He’s also made quite the list of enemies for himself, both as a prolific FBI agent and consultant for the police. He’s a fool if he thinks the thick steel door at the front entrance is going to stop anyone that desperately wants to get to him.

As if reading his mind, his accomplice hands Martin a copy of the keys to both the building and Malcolm’s apartment suite. Martin pockets them absently as he watches Malcolm duck into his bedroom, disappearing out of sight briefly before returning with a change of clothes in hand. As predicted, he makes his way back across the kitchen toward the bathroom, to wash the grime and tension of the day away.

Even with the grainy quality, the bright lights in the apartment illuminate Malcolm’s cleanshaven face. He’d been sporting quite the shadow the few times Martin’s seen him this year; cleanshaven, he looks almost like a kid again, at least as much as he did ten years ago. Seeing him like this almost, _almost_ makes it feel as though hardly any time has passed at all, as if Malcolm walked out of his life one day and returned the very next, which is really how their shared history should’ve played out in the first place.

“The sedative should take about 30 minutes to kick in,” Martin says. Given what his accomplice has gleaned, Malcolm refuses to take any kind of tranquilizer, despite his insomnia, just a little something to deal with his anxiety and depression. As such, Malcolm shouldn’t have developed a resistance to anything and should be out around—he glances at the glowing green time displayed on the truck’s dashboard—11:30pm or so, depending on when he takes his pills.

Malcolm returns on screen shortly, wet hair slicked back from his face, wearing grey cotton pajama pants and a white t-shirt. He pads barefoot into the kitchen and rummages through the fridge for a moment. Apparently displeased with what he finds, he opens one of his cabinets and pulls out what looks like a can of alphagetti. This startles a small laugh from Martin. Jessica hated the idea of instant food and never allowed them to keep any in the house, no matter how often Malcolm and Ainsley requested KD. In a way, it was good to see Malcolm doing whatever the hell he wanted as an adult; unfortunately, it was bittersweet to be reminded of how many opportunities Martin has missed in teaching his children how to fend for themselves, including such a simple task as cooking canned food.

“Something funny?” his accomplice asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Nothing…I’m just amused by his diet.”

“He usually cooks something more substantial than this.”

“That would be his mother’s influence.”

They fall silent once again as Malcolm quickly warms his food on the stove and then pours it unceremoniously into a bowl. He sets the dish on the island, swings by his coat to grab his phone out of the left pocket, and then settles down to eat. Or ‘inhale’ his food, rather, because he’s so absorbed by what he’s reading on his phone that he barely pauses between bites. Whatever he sees, it has him smiling.

For a moment, Martin wonders how much anybody is going to miss Malcolm once he vanishes from their orbit. Of course, nothing will ever compare to the decade Martin spent waiting for his son to return, but he’s still curious to know how closely their grief will compare to his own, even Arroyo’s. Does Malcolm make anyone smile the way they just made him? Does he brighten their day, if even only for a moment? Will they cry real tears when they realize they’ll never find him?

Martin’s excitement continues to mount when Malcolm finally retrieves his pills. Two bottles, one pill from each—both replaced with a sedative. He pops them into his mouth and washes them down with a glass of water, sealing his fate with deceptive ease.

Martin glances at the clock again. Then he pockets the cell phone. “Call me once you have my daughter.”

His accomplice nods and starts up the truck again as Martin opens the passenger door and steps out onto the slick pavement. The street is deserted at this time of night, illuminated by the oily light of the streetlamps, somewhat cold and uninviting. Honestly, Martin never really missed society. He missed moving about freely, of course, and seeking out his not-so-secret thrills, but he could happily live out in the middle of nowhere with only a steady stream of occasional visitors.

He waits until the truck pulls off quietly into the night before he jaywalks across the road. Ainsley’s place is a forty-minute drive from here, which means he has time to kill before his accomplice returns. Until Malcolm is out cold, that means loitering in the main entranceway, so Martin slips the key into the lock, welcomes himself in, and then settles down in the stairwell to continue spying on his son, grateful that Malcolm is currently the only tenant in the building.

Since he last checked the feed, Malcolm has now collected his laptop and a notepad, once more seated at the island as he squeezes a few more hours of work into the day. Malcolm glances at his stereo in the corner at one point, clearly contemplating a bit of music, but then he yawns, much to his own surprise. He blinks the wave of fatigue away and continues working, in denial about the mounting heaviness behind his eyes, that inescapable pull towards sleep that is too often absent in the life of an insomniac. Martin wonders if it frightens the boy to feel this way, if the thought of succumbing to sleep imposes a sense of vulnerability upon him. Why else would he still be awake at this hour?

Eventually, Malcolm braces his elbow against the counter, cups the side of his face in his hand, and closes his eyes. Martin glances at the clock on his cell phone. It’s only been 20 minutes. It looks as though everything is going according to plan.

He—and, perhaps, Malcolm—knows the game is well and truly over when Malcolm almost falls out of his chair, jerking awake at the last moment, but still knocking his phone off the island, which skids a fair distance across the floor and into his bedroom. Martin pockets his cell phone again and unlocks Malcolm’s apartment door, cracking it open an inch to listen for his cue.

Just a few feet away from him, Martin hears Malcolm swear under his breath. However, the words are horribly muddled in a way that only a drug-addled mind can accomplish. This is followed by an ungodly thud, the sound of a body colliding with the hardwood floor, and the nervous twitter of a bird.

Finally, Martin steps across the threshold and into Malcolm’s sacred domain

There is nothing standing between them now but empty space.

Malcolm is still on the floor, having crawled halfway toward his bedroom before he collapsed again. At a glance, Martin can tell Malcolm’s phone somehow slid all the way under his bed, far from his outstretched hand.

Relaxing, Martin takes a slow, deep breath. Even at the risk of sounding too cliché, he really _can_ smell fear. Malcolm, who knows well enough by now that something has gone horribly wrong, reeks of it. But in a good way. Fear demands obedience, and that’s all that Martin wants from him now. A little obedience. Is that really too much to ask for?

The floors creak quietly underfoot as Martin approaches his son. Malcolm hears him, able to roll over onto his side in his exhaustion but not much further. One glance at his father and he squeezes his eyes shut, moaning, “_No, no, no, no, no…_” like a mantra.

“It’s okay, Malcolm,” Martin says as he crouches down beside him. He strokes a stray lock of wet hair back from his son’s face; Malcolm really does look like a boy without the stubble. “You can rest now. I’ll take care of everything.”

There’s the telltale gleam of tears in Malcolm’s eyes when he blinks up at him again, but he yields to the sedative before they can fall. His eyelids flutter closed. The tension melts from his body.

Martin looks upon the face of his sleeping boy and feels at peace.

Pleased, he hoists Malcolm up off the floor, only a little stiff from a lack of practice. Old as he might be, he was still allowed to exercise at the asylum, and years of experience lifting literal dead weight has taught him how to effectively move a body in just about any situation. It also helps that he doesn’t have far to go, only a few meters to Malcolm’s bed, where he lays the poor boy out and grabs the leather restraints nailed to the wall beneath the headboard. His accomplice shortened them when he came by to swap out Malcolm’s pills, such that Malcolm can still rest with his arms at his sides but won’t be able to unlock himself if he wakes unexpectedly before their ride returns. The thought of this admittedly makes Martin laugh; he just loves the irony that Malcolm’s coping device for his somnambulism could be used so effectively against him in the waking world too.

Once he’s strapped Malcolm in, Martin grabs the armchair from the corner and pulls it up beside the bed, where he can sit and watch his boy at his leisure. Behind him, the little parakeet twitters angrily. Martin smiles at the sound: two birds, each in their respective cages.

He wonders how well Malcolm will fair in prolonged captivity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Up next, a little heart-to-heart between Malcolm and Martin


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the incredible support! I wasn’t expecting to get this much feedback. I hope this second chapter lives up to your expectations for the story.

~***~

_“If you think I'm losing you, you must be crazy_  
  


_[put] all your money on me_  
  


_I'm never gonna let you go”_

— Arcade Fire (Put Your Money on Me)

~***~

The wait is unbearable.

Impatient, Martin soon finds himself moving from his chair to the edge of Malcolm’s bed, watching his son closer in his quiet repose. He’s perfect. Both of his children are perfect—_beautiful_, so much like their mother. In fact, Martin remembers the first time he met Jessica, her hair artfully coiffed, her smile warm and inviting, her laughter a delightful trill over the romantic hum of the charity’s quartet. She was the most radiant person he had ever encountered. He could practically see their future children shining in her eyes.

He knew at once that he had to have her.

Remarkably, he doesn’t wish any ill-will against his wife, even after she abandoned him in his time of need. Neither Malcolm nor Ainsley would be here today without her, and she shared so many of her most admirable qualities with them, well beyond the best of her physical features. She bred her poise into them, her tenacity, her cunning, and her wit. Even her anger, which he too often sees burning in Malcolm’s eyes, is a treasure of a thing, the right brand of passion that can spur a person on to do extraordinary things. After all, it was this same anger that drove Malcolm beyond his mother’s better judgement, compelling him to seek out his father and allowing himself to be ensnared. Martin knows it will compel him to do much more than that in the coming days.

Martin glances at the clock on the wall opposite the bed. It’s only been an hour since Malcolm passed out. He can picture his accomplice sitting in his truck outside his daughter’s building right about now, engine cooling, doing a final check of the video feed from her tiny apartment. From what Martin’s been told, her walls are thin and her neighbors are a nosy lot, the kind of people that call the police almost constantly with noise complaints. His accomplice won’t act until he knows everyone on her floor is fast asleep, which might take a while.

Dim lights dance across the ceiling as a car passes on the street below. It’s quite spacious in here, and the décor is tasteful, a modern vibe with a touch of tradition. No doubt Jessica had a hand in decorating the place; this is her building, after all. However, the fact that there is barely anything ‘personal’ about it must be Malcolm’s doing, a conscious effort to protect himself from interpretation when entertaining guests, though Martin assumes those must be few and far between. Malcolm always had a hard time making friends—or expressing himself in general, even in the subtlest of ways. That’s why Martin assumes the photographs on his bedside table must be a recent addition.

One of the pictures is of Jessica and Ainsley at some charity event, both dressed to the nines and posing in front of an indoor fountain, smiling openly at the camera. The second is a somewhat candid shot taken inside a small conference room. Malcolm is featured here, unaware that he is being observed as he drops a hefty stack of files into a cardboard box, clearly in the process of closing a case. But he’s not alone. There’s a man standing beside him, one whom Martin recognizes as Detective “JT” Tarmel, just now glancing up from his phone in surprise, caught unaware by the camera’s flash. The two women situated across the table from them, Detective Dani Powell and Dr. Edrisa Tanaka, are better prepared, both smiling beatifically at the photographer. Altogether, it makes for a rather lovely snapshot of what must amount to Malcolm’s daily life in the New York City police department.

The third and final photograph is less pleasant. Malcolm is featured again, casually leaning back against a railing that overlooks what Martin assumes to be the Hudson River. The sun is in his eyes, but Malcolm is smiling brighter than Martin’s ever seen him before—and beside him, squinting just as hard into the blinding sunlight but still somehow managing to look as equally happy, is Detective Gil Arroyo.

Martin grabs the photograph before he knows what he’s doing, flipping over the frame to remove the picture. When he lifts the felt casing, he sees that something is written on the back of the shot, the date and a small note from Arroyo: _‘It’s okay to be happy.’_

The _nerve_ of that man…

Martin can feel the heat prickling at the nape of his neck as he carefully tears the photograph down the centre, dividing the two men from one another. He folds Malcolm’s side and tucks it safely into the inner breast pocket of his coat before slowly ripping Arroyo’s smiling face in half, again and again. He then wads the mangled pieces of paper into a ball and tosses them into the wastebasket by the bed. If Arroyo wanted a son so badly, he should’ve reevaluated his life choices back when he was still in his prime.

In Martin’s anger, he seems to have jostled Malcolm, who mumbles something incoherent and turns his face away. As premature as his return to consciousness might seem, it’s not surprising to Martin that the sedative is already beginning to wear off. He didn’t want to prescribe too high a dose, considering all the other meds his son is currently on, and he only needed the sedative to work long enough to subdue him anwyay. There’s a capped syringe in his pocket to put Malcolm under again once his accomplice returns with the truck.

When Malcolm shifts a little more, Martin returns the empty frame to the bedside table and debates moving back to the chair. The closer proximity to his son feels good, feels _right_, but Malcolm is already going to be overwhelmed when he realizes that he didn’t dream up the unexpected turn of events this evening, and Martin doesn’t want to be within kneeing distance while Malcolm is sorting out his initial reaction. With a heavy-hearted sigh, Martin therefore returns to his seat, slouching in the armchair as he casually crosses one leg over the other. Really, he knows he shouldn’t complain. He now has all the time in the world to bridge the distance between himself and his skittish child.

Malcolm returns to his senses slowly, his brain sluggish as he shifts his body on the bed, fighting the pull of sleep with the gentle arch of his back and cautious roll of his shoulders. His eyes flutter open as another car passes outside. He tracks the beam of light as it migrates across his bedroom ceiling, head turning, finally catching sight of Martin sitting there in the darkness. Then he freezes.

It’s as good as any reaction Martin could’ve hoped for, far better than a scream or flat out denial. The ensuing stretch of silence is respectful, almost, a necessary pause as Malcolm assesses the situation. Even drug-addled, he’s still properly sizing Martin up as the threat that he is. Martin is duly honored.

Which is why he smiles warmly and opens with a familiar “Hello, my boy.”

“This…” Malcolm slurs, before he squeezes his eyes shut and gives a small shake of his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “What…what did you…?”

“I would never give you anything too strong, I assure you.” It really is too easy to accidentally overdose someone; he has no intention of killing Malcolm, and the boy should know that. “You’ll be as right as rain again in a moment.”

Malcolm lifts a hand towards his face, as if to rub away the lethargy—but the chain, of course, is a little too short. It jerks to a premature halt with a menacing rattle. Malcolm’s eyes shoot open again as he comes to the realization of just how _real_ this whole situation is.

“ _‘We often give our enemies the means of our own destruction’ ”_ Martin quotes, amused, eyeing the manacles. “You remember Aesop, don’t you?” 

Malcolm doesn’t answer him, which is perfectly understandable, even if a little rude, because Martin can hear the air wheezing softly between his lips as he battles with his anxiety. Dyspnea can be a bitch of a thing. He can’t fault Malcolm for a physiological reaction beyond his control.

“Take your time,” Martin says, because he knows that Malcolm will have words for him soon enough. “Slow, deep breaths, into your stomach, not your chest. Hold it in for a few seconds, if you can. That should help.”

Malcolm turns his face away from Martin, either wounded by his seemingly patronizing words or simply embarrassed by his help. Martin’s only trying to do what he does best as a doctor, but he supposes Malcolm needs to do what he can to calm down, even if that’s to momentarily pretend Martin isn’t there.

Malcolm’s struggle only lasts a few minutes. The frantic heaves finally stutter out into something of a hiccup before he’s able to breathe normally. Then he turns his face over again, staring at Martin with eyes that look suspiciously glossy in the dim light. However, no words pass between them for an uncomfortable stretch. Malcolm’s explosive anger is somehow missing, gutted by the sad look in his eyes. He seems defeated, like so many of the Surgeon’s victims once they realize that the odds of squirming their way to freedom are less than none.

Humility is a good look on Malcolm, but this silence is stifling, so Martin tries, yet again, to stimulate a little conversation between them. “I’ll admit,” he chuckles, “I was expecting a little more…_bite_ from you. You’ve really gotten into the habit of flinging vitriol at me this past year.”

“What would be the point?” Malcolm asks. As soft as his voice is, his words sit heavily in Martin’s chest. Martin has trouble describing the exact emotion this response evokes in him. On the one hand, he _wants_ Malcolm calm and docile; on the other, Malcolm’s quiet resignation is too unlike him. It…it makes him seem _detached_—but Malcolm has gotten away with being ‘detached’ from Martin for far too long. What Martin _needs_ him to be right now is engaged.

“Well…” Martin uncrosses his legs and leans forward, elbows braced against his knees, hands loosely clasped together, “I know you have questions—you’ve _always_ had questions, but now you have my undivided attention, without anyone in a white uniform hovering around to audit my responses. If there was ever something you wanted to ask me, now would be the time.” When Malcolm opens his mouth to take him up on his offer, Martin quickly amends it: “—But not ‘_Why_’, Malcolm. Everyone wants to know why I did what I did. Try not to be drab.”

Malcolm slowly closes his mouth again and glances up at the ceiling. After a beat, Martin begins to wonder if he’s ignoring him, but then Malcolm says, “How could you prioritize your…_urges_ over your family?”

“I didn’t.” His response is automatic, because he means it. “Nothing is more important to me than family.”

“But did you _really_ think you weren’t going to get caught?” Malcolm asks, with just enough infliction to sound like his usual cynical self. “You tarnished our name and left Ainsley and me without a father for the better part of our childhood. If you truly loved us, how could _anything_ compel you more than the need to protect your family from yourself?”

Of course, Malcolm doesn’t understand ‘love’ the way Martin does. The objects of his affection might be few and far between, but Martin never acted in the _absence_ of his love when he killed.

“You say that like you think my love for you and my so-called ‘_urges’_ are mutually exclusive,” Martin replies. “But they’re not. Don’t be crazy.”

Malcolm gives another short, sharp jerk of his chains, just to emphasize the ridiculousness of the situation he’s found himself in; the bird in the kitchen twitters frantically. “You think _I’m _the crazy one here?”

Martin shakes his head, momentarily lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Alright…a poor choice of words. I apologize. What I _meant_ to say that there are things we are compelled to do and which _must_ be done, despite how we feel. Do you think—I don’t know—a _cop_ loves his family any less when he makes the decision to face down a gunman, even knowing there’s a chance he won’t be there for them in the morning?”

This analogy earns him a small huff of air from Malcolm, a laugh singed by contempt. “I can’t believe you just compared yourself to a cop….”

_‘You’re not alone,’_ Martin thinks, mind momentarily wandering to the shredded picture in the wastebasket.

“I think that’s all that I wanted to ask you,” Malcolm continues, voice immediately softening again, trying to take on a more neutral tone. But Martin can tell he’s still scared. 

And he’s not done talking yet. “While we’re on the subject of ‘_urges_’, I’m interested to know why you think there’s some great divide between love and all other desires. Are you speaking from a clinical point of view or are you basing this on your personal knowledge? Don’t you have any urges of your own?”

He’s dying to hear what Malcolm has to say to that. Malcolm is every bit his son, and Ainsley is every bit his daughter; if they haven’t _once_ allowed their minds to wander into ever-darkening ruminations already, he’d be very, _very _surprised.

A hint of a frown briefly mars Malcolm’s face before he forces himself to relax again. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he says, “To be accepted by my peers.”

Martin feels like he should be upset with Malcolm’s evasive response, but he doesn’t doubt that social acceptance is, in fact, one of the many things Malcolm craves. “Alright…but that’s not what I’m asking here, and I’m sure you know it.”

“Then rephrase your question, please.”

“You don’t _really_ expect me to believe that the ex-FBI ‘profiler’ in the room can’t figure out what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Given the sensitive nature of this conversation, I just want to be clear. You’re talking about urges, supposedly those that drove you to kill all those people. Is that correct?”

“That’s right.” Martin relaxes marginally, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs again. “You feel it too.”

He knows that sounds more like a statement of fact than a question, but Malcolm takes it remarkably well. His boy calmly says, “It’s hard to tell with any certainty without knowing what I’m supposed to be comparing it to. How would you describe it?”

Martin’s been asked that question more times than he can count, enough so the he usually shuts down any interviewer or therapist that tries to open a conversation with it, but hearing it from Malcolm is somehow different. Malcolm really does need a point of reference in order to understand what he himself is feeling, and that point of reference should be his mentor. After all, if allowances are to be made for anyone, it should be family.

“Well, think of it this way…” Martin wracks his brain for a moment, searching for a suitable example. “Do you remember when we used to go camping together?”

Something flashes across Malcolm’s face, a flicker of emotion too transient to name. Then he says, “I do.”

“We would often set up our tent at to this one place that was near a stream. You liked to investigate it for tadpoles at the end of the day, which worried me, because I was always afraid that you would fall in. Not that you ever did, but you would occasionally sit there and stick your hand in despite my warnings.” Martin smiles faintly. It was a good memory, one of the few genuine ones he had in lieu of the many fantasies he concocted in the asylum about what his children were doing in the outside world. “I remember asking you why you persisted in doing that, and you told me that you just enjoyed making ripples. That analogy has stuck with me all these years, the idea of thrusting your hand into the stream and taking control, forcing everything else to make its way around you. That’s what it feels like to take someone’s life into your hands, Malcolm. And then, when you withdraw your hand and the stream returns to normal, you can’t help but feel bereft of that power. It’s maddening, and you know the cycle will never end if you let it continue, but you persist because otherwise the stream would go on merrily without you.”

“So…you do it because it affords you the feeling of being in control.”

“Among other things, but that’s the gist of it, yes.”

“Does that mean you felt entirely out of control when you weren’t killing? How would you describe how you handled your daily life in comparison to how you felt during one of your…sprees?”

Martin stops to think for a moment. Malcolm patiently waits for an answer, which eventually turns out to be: “Obviously, to all outside appearances, I can carry on as a productive member of society, but the feeling creeps up on me from time to time, sometimes even out of the blue. If I yield, I remain in control; if I don’t…” Martin gives an enigmatic wave of his hand. “It’s maddening, until I _do_ yield, at which point I’m usually too strung up to enjoy what I’m doing. I think that’s the point where most serial killers begin to slip up. Our best work is done when we are slow and methodical. Rushing just botches the whole thing up.”

“What you’re saying is that you’re always in control, either because you aren’t currently being assailed by your urges or because you immediately yield to them when they come, correct?”

“Yes. Because I don’t fight those urges, I’m always in control.”

“How do you feel now, not having killed anyone in the last 20 years?”

Goodness, what a question…How does anyone feel when they’re troubled by a thirst that cannot be quenched?

Martin opens his mouth to respond—and then pauses. He stares at Malcolm where the boy is lying on the bed, calm and quiet, if a little stiff, watching Martin in return. Martin wonders how many criminals Malcolm observed in Quantico with that same placid expression, listening to their stories but not quite _hearing_ them…

A muscles twitches in Martin’s jaw. He feels a prickle of heat against the back of his neck again, but he maintains his composure. “You know, I do _read_ in prison, Malcolm.”

Malcolm frowns, confused.

“Chris Voss,” Martin clarifies. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him—he was a prominent FBI negotiator that wrote a book on all the tricks of his trade, which heavily involve active listening. Paraphrasing what someone is telling you, periodically verifying that these summaries are accurate, asking open-ended ‘How’ and ‘What’ questions, letting the other person do all the talking—you’re not really interested in what I’m saying. You’re just buying time.” Martin gaze flickers to the pictures on the bedside table unbidden, zeroing in on the snapshot of Malcolm’s team at the NYPD. “You think someone will try to call you or come for you eventually, and that all you need to do in the meantime is keep me talking. Now, tell me I’m wrong.”

Naturally, Malcolm follows his line of regard, glancing at the photographs. And, of course, his eyes linger, no doubt curious about the now-empty frame. What he makes of that, Martin doesn’t know, but he’s almost certain that, at the very least, Malcolm will think his father is somehow jealous of Gil Arroyo. Which he isn’t. Arroyo will never have the same power Martin has over his son.

Malcolm quickly averts his gaze, focusing once again on Martin. “You wanted to talk, so I’m listening. How is that a problem?”

“Because what I _really_ want to talk about is you,” Martin mutters. He braces his elbows against the armrests of his chair and steeples his fingers together. He’s frustrated, but he knows they’ll have time to iron out the kinks in their relationship later. “Now that I know you’ll say just about anything to appease me, I don’t see the point.”

Quirking an eyebrow at him, Malcolm says, “So, what? Are you just going to sit there and stare at me?”

“Might as well. Unless you have something terribly amusing to say, I suppose.”

“We’re only having this conversation at all right now because you’re waiting for your accomplice,” Malcolm says, delivering on that request. “Time is of the essence, because someone _will_ notice that you’re missing sooner or later, and I know you wouldn’t want to risk have this conversation if you could simply just get up and leave. You’re waiting for someone to come and collect you, so you can’t exactly fault me for thinking you might be stuck here long enough for help to arrive.”

So…Malcolm knows that Martin is, in fact, making quite the gamble by being here tonight. That’s annoying, as it always is whenever Malcolm susses out information prematurely, but not entirely surprising. Martin would’ve hauled Malcolm out to the car by now if he wasn’t waiting on his accomplice.

“Come and collect _us_,” Martin corrects him. “You honestly don’t think I’m going to let you go again after all these years, do you?”

Somehow, that shuts Malcolm right up. Honestly, he looks as though Martin just slapped him, as if it _hadn’t_ occurred to him that they would be leaving here tonight together.

Martin feels winded for a moment—_wounded_, really. Murderer that he might be, he is Malcolm’s father first and foremost. What other possible reason could Malcolm imagine for his being here tonight?

It takes him a second, but Martin finally gets it.

“Did you think I came here to _kill_ you?” Martin asks, voice softened by disbelief. He rises from his chair and sits down on the bed again. He doesn’t miss the way Malcolm stiffens when Martin cups the side of his face with his warm hand, pupils blown wide with fear. “Malcolm…I _made_ you and your sister. Why would I ever want to destroy you?”

It seems as though Malcolm might be winding up to having another panic attack. He’s so rigid, he reminds Martin eerily of a corpse, which is a wholly unpleasant thought. Malcolm should remain animated, even long after Martin is dead, an extension of his life—his very _hand_, doing his good work beyond the grave.

“Don’t touch me,” Malcolm gasps, but he doesn’t recoil, paralyzed as he is by his fear.

Well, _that_ hurts. Martin’s genuinely insulted, which is why he curtly says, “Calm down. You _don’t_—”

His phone trills in his pocket just then, an annoying little jingle calling his attention away to a new text message.

Despite his annoyance at being told off, Martin rises from the bed, digging into his coat pocket for his phone. The short message that shows up on the lock screen is a simple _‘Call me.’_

This can’t be good.

Martin taps the ‘Unknown Caller’ number and presses the cellphone to his ear, walking casually to the other end of Malcolm’s apartment. Once he reaches the living room, he turns around to half-sit, half-lean against the back of Malcolm’s couch, far enough away that Malcolm should have trouble eavesdropping but still close enough to keep his son in his sightline while he takes this call.

As soon as his accomplice picks up his end of the line, Martin says, “Talk.”

“_Her boyfriend is here._”

…

Martin takes a slow, deep breath.

They chose tonight of all nights _precisely_ because Ainsley’s boyfriend was supposed to be out of town. His accomplice is more than capable of taking on two people at a time, but the ruckus that would cause is just…it’s too risky.

Of course, they both knew something like this might happen. In fact, Martin had even mentally prepared himself to lose out on grabbing Malcolm tonight. Really, he should be grateful that everything turned out alright with his son. Even so, his little _Ainsley_…

There’s a conference coming up in about a month in Chicago, one that Martin knows she’s already registered herself for, some kind of media research day that could help her network. Their back-up plan is to grab her then and there, so everything is not _entirely _lost. In fact…Martin could probably use this mishap to his advantage.

“I’ll call you back in a minute,” Martin replies, loud enough that he hopes Malcolm hears. Hanging up, he then rises from his perch and saunters back into the bedroom, smiling a small smile. Taking his seat again, he says, “Your sister has a lovely apartment. My partner agrees, although I think she has too many windows for my taste. The summer months must be brutal.”

If Malcolm was tense before, he looks downright horrified now. “Ainsley…” he says, faint.

“I love my children equally,” Martin continues. “I imagine she must feel neglected after all the one-on-one time I’ve spent with you. Can you imagine how that must feel, being the youngest in the family, always coming in second to her brother? What kind of father would I be if I excluded her from our fun?”

“Leave her alone.” There’s a bit of venom in that demand, but Malcolm is still remarkably quiet, choked up by his fear. There’s so much pain in his eyes. Family is clearly just as important to him as it is to Martin.

“That’s a tall order,” Martin says, stern. Let’s not allow the boy to think he has any authority in this situation. “And the way I see it, you might prove to be wholly uncooperative in the coming days. Ainsley, on the other hand, has always been such a good girl. She might be more receptive to what I have to teach her.”

“No.” Malcolm’s eyes are glossy again. He swallows, hard, and there it is, the foundations crumbling as fear finally gives way to desperation. “_No_, please…”

Martin tilts his head to one side, teasing, “_No_? You want me to leave her alone? What does that get me, exactly?”

Malcolm’s tongue is tied for a moment. Martin can see the war of emotions going on inside him, the twitch of anger at his brow before the muscles slacken in defeat, the lump in his throat working up and then down again as he tries to swallow past his tears. His only advantage here is Martin’s fondness for him, but he knows that fondness only opens the doors for negotiation. Malcolm’s got to be willing to make an unfavorable bargain if he hopes to get anything out of this.

With great difficulty, voice tight, clearly trying not to cry, Malcolm finally capitulates: “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Anything at all?” Martin asks. “You might not like what I have planned for you, my boy.”

Malcolm swallows again, trying not to fall to pieces. “…Anything.”

Martin couldn’t be happier.

Shifting his weight in his chair, taking his time to really settle on the idea, Martin eventually nods his head. “Alright…your cooperation in exchange for her freedom. That’s the deal. Now, say ‘_thank_ _you’_.”

As much as it must pain him to do so, Malcolm puts his hurt and his pride behind him and manages to whisper a dutiful “Thank you.”

“Good boy.” Satisfied, Martin redials his accomplice, this time putting it on speaker phone.

The other man answers on the first ring. “_Yes_?”

“Ignore Ainsley. We leave as soon as you return.”

“_Got it_.”

The call disconnects, and Martin drops the phone back into his coat pocket. Just like that, they’ve corrected their course. Their current trajectory doesn’t look too bad, even if he’s a little disappointed that he won’t be seeing Ainsley tonight.

After the phone slips from his hand, Martin then curls it around the syringe lying in wait at the base of his pocket. He thinks it’s for the best if he puts Malcolm under now, before the boy can overthink things. This time, he’ll be out for a few hours, long enough that they can transport him without hassle.

Cold resignation crosses Malcolm’s face when he spots the syringe. He stares up at the ceiling, keeping his body lax as Martin turns over his left arm, tucking the needle into the crook of his elbow as he injects the sedative into a vein. It begins to take effect in less than a minute, at which point Malcolm blinks sluggishly, a stray tear tracking its way lazily across his temple and into his hair. He doesn’t once look at Martin in this time, instead turning his gaze on the photographs beside his bed before he shuts his eyes for good.

Martin stares at the empty frame as he caps the syringe and tosses it into the wastebasket with the rest of the rubbish. Then he returns his attention to his boy, his beautiful boy, such a clever little beast.

Whether Malcolm wants to or not, Martin _knows_ he’s going to do his father proud.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed the rest of the story! As I’ve told another reviewer, I plan on writing more one-shots throughout the season, although this one should strictly be a two-chapter piece (unless Malcolm really does wind up getting kidnapped by the season finale...I don't know, I might just continue this...decisions, decisions...)


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